Granero was bound to a pole, his wrists torn raw against the coarse rope. His mother was tied beside him, her frail body slumped forward, breathing raggedly. Each breath seemed to slice through her chest, her broken spine rendering even the act of existing a torment.
Granero's eyes never left her. His own body ached from countless blows, blood dripping into his eyes, but none of that mattered compared to the agony carved into his mother's face. His lips quivered with grief and rage, then he bellowed at the soldiers with all the fury his lungs could summon.
"You evil men! She did nothing wrong to you! Why do you subject her to such agony? Have you no conscience?"
The soldiers only threw back their heads and roared with laughter. They relished his pain, each chuckle stabbing deeper into Granero's chest than any blade could.
From among them, Supreme General Vincent Kim descended from his black warhorse with quiet, deliberate steps. His armor gleamed dully under the storm clouds above, his face carved with the coldness of stone. He walked up to Granero, every step pressing like the weight of doom itself.
"All your words are futile," the General said, his voice calm, almost fatherly in its cruelty. He drew his enormous grey broadsword, its edge glinting as though eager to drink blood. "Just accept death, boy… and do it like a man."
Granero lifted his head, his swollen eyes burning with a spark of defiance. His voice cracked but carried firm conviction. "The Black Dragon will avenge me… and my mother."
A smirk curled across Vincent Kim's lips. "Why don't you just give up on that myth? The Black Dragon is either too frightened or already dead. If I were to wager, I'd say he's a coward. Do you know how many I've slain? Thousands. And do you know what their final words were?" He leaned closer, his breath hot and venomous. "Ninety-five percent of them mentioned your precious dragon. Ninety-five percent! That's how deep this foolish belief runs in your people. And yet, all their faith—"
But before the General could finish his mockery, the heavens themselves interrupted.
A deafening roar cracked across the skies, louder than any beast, heavier than any drum. Lightning split the heavens, not in single bolts, but in blinding torrents, crisscrossing the blackened sky with unnatural speed. The flashes painted the battlefield in ghostly white, searing every soldier's eyes.
The earth trembled. Horses shrieked and reared. Soldiers froze mid-laughter, their faces drained of colour. For the first time that day, fear seized the hearts of men.
Every gaze turned upward. The storm raged unnaturally, as though it had been summoned. And amidst the chaos, the soldiers whispered, their voices quivering.
"Could it be… him?"
Granero, despite his bonds, allowed a faint smile to tug at his bleeding lips. His eyes shone with a fragile, desperate hope.
The sky darkened further, swallowing the last traces of sunlight until it seemed the heavens themselves had sealed shut. The storm swirled in violent arcs, clouds boiling like a furious sea above. Then—something vast stirred within them. A colossal shadow shifted, heavy, deliberate, as though the sky carried a weight too immense for mortal comprehension.
When the soldiers thought it couldn't grow stranger, the storm split with a searing brilliance. A figure emerged, not beast but man, standing tall upon the currents of thunder itself. He descended slowly, not falling but striding as if the heavens had bent into a staircase at his command.
He held a long rod in his right hand, the kingly staff, golden in radiance, alive with veins of silver lightning. His face was proud, his expression defiant, and his very presence bent the world around him. To the soldiers, he looked less like a man and more like a war god carved from legend, descending to render judgment.
Across the breadth of the Nazare Blade Empire, the phenomenon could not be ignored. Across the various regions, In distant villages, farmlands, mountain caves, and bustling city markets, people froze mid-step. No matter where they were, every single person raised their eyes to the heavens, and there he was—the same figure, visible in the sky as if the storm itself carried his image.
Hope ignited like wildfire. Despair was forgotten. Gasps, cheers, and tears erupted across the empire.
"The Black Dragon…" whispered an old man, falling to his knees.
"That's what I'm talking about!" shouted another, his voice breaking with excitement. "The Black Dragon returns! Hahaha! All these trash invaders, and disruptive intruders will finally be given a face-slapping send-off!"
A younger man snorted and shouted back, "Face-slapping? More like a life-ending send-off! Their bones will scatter before him!"
In the midst of the euphoria, a woman pressed her hands to her chest and cried, "Why did my baby take so long to show up? I thought I'd die a virgin!"
The crowd around her erupted into laughter, while others shook their heads in mockery. Even in the midst of fear and war, the people's spirits rose, their hearts fueled by something they hadn't felt in decades—belief.
But far away, in the deepest shadows of Region 1, the reaction was far different.
Beneath the earth, hidden from the world in a concealed underground cellar, Emperor Groa Aratat emerged from his sanctum. His wrinkled hands pushed open the iron doors as he stepped outside, his eyes drawn to the roiling heavens. He squinted, and then he saw it—the unmistakable figure blazing across the storm.
Josh Aratat.
This time, he wore no mask. His face was clear, unhidden, undeniable.
The emperor's chest tightened as fragments of memory assaulted him. The prophecy. The late priestess Sarzo Uno, the woman he had defiled, humiliated, driven to despair and eventually suicide. He remembered her words the first time when she initially brought the prophecy to him, and her trembling voice later, just before she took her life with poison, her last words etched into his mind like a curse.
"Your eighth son… Josh Aratat… will one day take the throne."
"By the sacred light of Nualari and the shadows of the Eternal Flame...
Let your death be painful and slow and from one of your heirs.
Let your heirs war against each other in madness.
Let your nights be haunted by the cries of women you've broken.
Let your empire crumble—not with fire or sword, only, But also with betrayal, rot, and the slow blade of regret.
From this day forward, Groa, may every pleasure taste like ash in your mouth."And you, Emperor Groa, will die. Your blood will stain the dawn of a new era."
The emperor shivered, his mind racing. The words he had buried, mocked, and dismissed came rushing back with cruel precision. And now here was Josh, standing like a god in the storm, as if destiny itself had come to collect the debt of his sins.
For a moment, fear gnawed at his bones. His lips trembled. But then the arrogance of a lifetime resurfaced. He clenched his fists, forcing the tremor from his hands.
"No," he muttered to himself. "No… I survived insurrection. I survived betrayal. I survived the invasion of the scorpion empire, the fall of allies, the schemes of the trickster god. I can survive this too."
His eyes hardened, though the shadow of doubt lingered. "He is my son, after all. My blood. Perhaps… I can talk to him. Yes. He will listen. He must listen. He will reason with me."
But even as he convinced himself, the storm above rumbled like laughter, as if the heavens already knew otherwise.